High Concept

by Whitley Gray

A breeze soughed through the treetops like a mourner, and feathery snow drifted down, dappling the ground. Beck inched along the crest of the hill, maneuvering, trying to get in front of them. At this angle, a shot risked hitting Zach. Shooting at Olivetti’s back likewise put Zach in danger—the AR-15 aimed at Zach’s spine wasn’t exactly harmless.

  The hillside sloped down, leaving Beck a scant ten feet of elevation above them, and he dropped to his belly. Trees and brush grew thick, camouflaging him as he crawled along, attention on Zach.

  Olivetti walked Zach behind the cabin, and Beck scrambled to keep up.

  In the middle of the yard was a low hill of dirt like a pitcher’s mound; a circular concrete lip stuck up through the soil, and a round piece of wood rested next to it.

  An old cistern, used for storing water. Didn’t take much imagination to guess what the psychopath had in mind. Options, options. Beck could take out Olivetti—and risk the guy emptying the clip into Zach—or show himself, try to negotiate Zach’s release until backup got here.

  Here we go.

  Beck stood and picked through the trees, trying for silence. Olivetti might shoot into the tree line if he anticipated a rescuer. Raising the Glock, Beck stepped forward into the shadowy clearing near the abandoned cabin. “Okay, Zach?”

  He looked like hell, but his head snapped up and he nodded.

  In a blink, Olivetti grabbed Zach by the hair and pointed the gun barrel at his head. Olivetti braced the shoulder pad of the AR-15 against his hip. “Not for long, I’m afraid.”

  “Drop it, Olivetti.”

  Over Zach’s shoulder, the politician’s eyes glowed with malice. A slow smile spread across his face. “Well, it seems we have a standoff here.”

  Beck eased to the left. “Here’s the deal. You let him go, and I won’t blow your head off.”

  “Think I’ll take him with me.” Olivetti jabbed Zach in the temple with the barrel of the weapon, and Zach moaned. In a flash, Olivetti let the AR-15 dangle on its strap and had a handgun leveled above Zach’s ear. Olivetti threw an arm around Zach’s neck and stepped backward. The hump of the uncovered well loomed behind him.

  “We can do this all day.” Beck struggled to keep a neutral expression. He couldn’t allow this insane maniac to dump Zach into the cistern.

  “Oh, we won’t.” Olivetti tugged at Zach, who struggled to stay on his feet.

  If Beck took a shot, Olivetti might fall backward and take Zach with him. If Zach could drop, get out of the way…

  “The situation bites, doesn’t it?” Beck smiled.

  “Yeah,” Zach got out. “Bites.” He flashed a grimace that might be a smile.

  “Okay, Olivetti. Freeze.”

  Zach twisted and went limp.

  Beck pulled the trigger.

  The crack of gunfire echoed off the canyon. The air whooshed out of Beck’s lungs. His legs went rubbery, and he went with it, sinking to the ground. The ache in his shoulder escalated with a vengeance, and nausea brought him to the edge of emptying his stomach. Had Olivetti taken out his arm? He dropped the Glock and slapped his hand over the hole in his coat and rolled to his side. Fuck. How many times did he have to get shot?

  Beck registered two things at the same time. Olivetti had fallen into the well. Zach was on the ground on his hands and knees. And damn it, the left side of Beck’s chest must’ve caved in.

  Zach scrambled over. “Where are you hit?”

  “Jesus Christ.” Beck groaned. “It hurts.”

  Zach tore at Beck’s coat, ripped open his shirt. “You, you’re—” Zach’s throat moved in a swallow. “You’re wearing a vest.”

  Beck gazed at Zach. Scraped, black-and-blue, hair matted with blood. And he was gorgeous. Fucking gorgeous. Snow spiraled like goose down from the leaden sky. A faint wail of sirens interrupted the silence, an odd cry as if a strange and angry animal approached. Zach’s face blurred. Beck sighed and closed his eyes.

  “Beck?” Fingers brushed his forehead. Sound muted, and Beck let himself fade away.

  Chapter Thirty

  “You okay?” The bathroom light silhouetted Beck for a moment and then went off. Zach watched as Beck ambled toward him and the bed, something clenched in one fist.

  “I’ll live.” I think. “The five-piece percussion group pounding inside my skull is down to a trio.” In Beck’s bed, Zach shifted to his side. A dose of narcotic painkiller had blunted the headache as well as the myriad aches and pains. Between that and the events of the day, a bone-deep fatigue had settled in, and he craved sleep.

  The emergency room doctor had been in favor of admitting Zach overnight. A CT scan of his head had shown no fracture, no bleeding inside his skull. The glancing shot delivered by the SIG hadn’t perforated the titanium above his left ear—only left a scalp wound and a creased plate. Nevertheless, getting shot in the head seemed to be one of the things that merited inpatient observation these days. Zach had refused.

  “I want to show you something.” Beck tossed a couple of medication bottles on the duvet. “I divided the prescription. It’s all there. Count it.”

  Zach dropped his gaze. The last twenty-four hours had been stressful enough. All he wanted was sleep. “Beck—”

  “I’m not an addict. Just a guy with a messed-up shoulder.”

  And a purpling bruise over the left pectoral, thanks to the slug’s impact on the Kevlar vest. In the ER, Beck had refused any narcotic, despite the doctor’s pronouncement that “it has to hurt like hell.” The curtain between Zach’s cubicle and Beck’s had done nothing to privatize the conversation. Zach had finally yelled at Beck to “quit being a bonehead and take the meds,” and after sweeping the curtain aside to deliver a withering glare, Beck had relented. The doctor had glanced between them, shaken her head as she exited, and sent a nurse in with a syringe for each of them.

  Sliding a hand across the covers, Zach scooped up the bottles and offered them to Beck. “I don’t need to count. I believe you.”

  Eyes narrowed, Beck stared and made no move to take them.

  After Zach’s exit, no wonder Beck didn’t believe him. With Olivetti’s gun pressed to his spine, Zach’d regretted not listening, not sorting things out with Beck. “I mean it.”

  “Okay.” Relief in that word. Beck opened the drawer of the bedside table, took the bottles, and tossed them in. Climbing into bed, Beck brought with him the scent of freshly washed skin and toothpaste.

  “God, I’m tired.” Beck leaned in, bestowed a gentle kiss on the arch of Zach’s cheekbone. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  “Me too.” It was good to be here. In the mountains, he’d despaired of surviving, let alone making it all the way back to Beck’s bed. As another tender kiss hit the corner of his mouth, Zach closed his eyes.

  “He’ll stand trial, after he gets out of the hospital,” Beck said.

  “When I caught up with him, I had a clear shot.” Zach gazed at the ceiling. “My first thought was to put him down. But I hesitated because I wanted him to suffer the consequences.” And nearly gotten himself killed as a result.

  Beck nodded. “There’ll be consequences.”

  The Park County Sheriff had taken control of the case, stringing miles of canary-yellow crime scene tape around the area. A rescue team had hauled Olivetti out of the well—bruised and filthy but otherwise unscathed—and the sheriffs took him into custody. Hardly seemed fair that the man had escaped serious injury. Zach shuddered. If Olivetti had shot him and dumped his body in the well, Beck might never have found him.

  After all that had happened, Olivetti had had the balls to threaten the cops with “legal action” as they hauled him away.

  Zach had stayed out of the way and given a statement to the sheriffs, promising to answer further questions in the morning. Beck had likewise spoken with the sheriffs, then supervised the paramedics as they examined Zach, cleaned him up with gauze soaked in a pungent disinfectant, and applied bandages. Beck had refused to allow them to transport Olivetti in the same ambu
lance, and Beck had clenched Zach’s hand in his during the long ride down the mountain, despite the sideways looks from the paramedic caring for him. Zach was glad for that.

  Beck rolled toward him and brushed the hair off Zach’s forehead. “You did a great job holding him off. I was praying like hell you remembered that story.”

  “I owe you one.” The first moments he’d bent over Beck were the worst of Zach’s life, convinced he’d seen Olivetti kill Beck. Uncovering the black mesh of the vest and the deformed slug embedded in its fibers had made him weak with relief.

  “Nah. Just doing my job.” Beck slid down in bed and tugged Zach over until his head rested on Beck’s uninjured shoulder.

  Zach raised his head and asked, “Are you sure that’s comfortable?”

  “Yeah. The drugs have taken effect.” Beck delivered a warm kiss to Zach’s lips and groaned as he relaxed back into the pillow, arm tightening around Zach. “Tomorrow’s going to be a busy day.”

  Tomorrow would bring with it a fresh wave of questions and a new investigation into the string of people Olivetti had sacrificed in his bid for the governorship. Zach had no doubt that Olivetti had a big-league lawyer on speed dial. Despite the fact that most of the players were dead, the evidence was compelling. Levin’s body had been taken away by the Park County Coroner.

  When the ambulance doors had closed, the rescue team had out maps of the mine, planning strategy to retrieve the remains. Olivetti stated that the body was Zenobia Miller and had made it clear the sister of his fraternity brother had been intimately involved in the plan, including the death of Ferris Riggs, the attack on Dean, and the stairway assault on Beck.

  The complexities of the case would necessitate coordination between the Denver Police Department, the Park County Sheriff’s Department, and the FBI. Zach hoped that Sands would free him from the impending task force. Much as Zach wanted to stay in Denver, he was ready to get home. Ready to start the process of changing his life to a saner career and a secure relationship.

  Zach rolled to his stomach and rested his chin on his hand on Beck’s chest. “I’m thinking about quitting the FBI.”

  Beck’s gaze sharpened. “That’s a big change.”

  “I’d been considering it before this case started.” Hell, every crime scene had brought him closer to the decision. Seeing Xavier Darling had clinched it, and today’s events confirmed a change would be good. “Considering relocating to this area.”

  “I’d like that.” Beck raised his head, and the gray-eyed gaze twinkled. “I love you.”

  “Love you too.”

  Beck grinned and clicked off the light.

  Loose Id Titles by Whitley Gray

  High Concept

  Whitley Gray

  Whitley lives in the Rocky Mountain West, and works at a major medical center. Her medically based stories involve events that *ahem* never take place in a real hospital. She has a very understanding family, who put up with long sojourns at the computer and bring her ice cream.